Monday, April 7, 2008

Below is an extract from the journals of Lord Likely, aristocratic adventurer and gentle-man of action. This particular extract has been re-printed here as it offers an unparalleled view of how the British (especially their noblemen) refer to the act of onanism. As such, some more delicate souls may find some of the terminology rather upsetting, or completely arousing.

April the Seventh, 1857.

I was in the process of moving some of my furniture about, as I was expecting a visit from the Lord Mayor of London, Sir Danglebert Widdler, who had requested an audience with me, concerning the building of a statue of my glorious self in Trafalgar Square. Truly, this was a very important meeting indeed.

As I moved my undeniably fine furnishings around, I suddenly found myself transfixed by a Queen Anne chair I had long forgotten about.

It was certainly a beautiful object, of that there was no doubt. But oh! How beautiful! That long, slender back; those fully-exposed, curvaceous legs...it was one of the most arousing pieces of furniture I had ever beheld.

Before I knew it, I found I had become so enamoured of the chair that I was now sporting a rather rampant erection, which would most certainly not be appropriate to be sporting in front of the Lord Mayor. With only five minutes before Widdler was due to arrive, I knew I had to act fast, and bash one out before Widdler's arrival.

So, I quickly set about pounding my Palmerston (the pet-name I have bestowed upon my gentle-man's organ), furiously fapping away as if my very life depended on it.

I must have been wanking for a good few minutes, before I was suddenly made aware of someone standing in the doorway. I turned around to find my cretinous man-servant, Botter, standing there, alongside Sir Danglebert Widdler, who was clearly apoplectic with rage.

"What in the name of Lucifer's beard do you think you are doing, man?" bellowed Widdler.

I realised that there was no possible way I could fabricate any feasible untruth about my situation, so I decided to be completely upfront about my completely 'up' front.

"I was masturbating, Lord Mayor," I replied dryly.

"WHAAAAAT?" roared Widddler, his face reddening with anger.

"Masturbating," I repeated. "You know, indulging in the act of onanism. Self abuse. Wanking. Having a Tommy Tank. Knocking one off. Tossing one off. Cracking one out. The five knuckle shuffle. Whacking off. Having one off the wrist. Having a Barclays. Polishing the fleshy cane. Introducing Mr. Todger to Mrs. Palmer and her five lovely daughters. Bashing the Bishop. Shaking hands with the General. Having a stroke. Playing the pink oboe. Playing a flute solo. Choking the chicken. Spanking the monkey. Slapping the donkey. Throttling the Pope. Exorcising the demon. Making a deposit at the Spank Bank. Fondling the flag-pole. Jerking the gherkin. Making man-soup. Firing the fleshy cannon. Doing battle with the purple-helmeted warrior. Pounding the parson. Charming the trouser snake. Summoning the genie. Knighting Sir Penis. Making love to one's self. Entering the circle of trust. Getting in the handy-man. Rubbing the -"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Widdler shouted, having heard quite enough euphemisms for one day, it would seem. "I have never been so offended in all my life!"

"I would recommend getting out of the house a lot more often, then," I quipped.

And with that, Sir Danglebert Widdler snorted in disgust, and strode off in an almighty huff.

Sir Danglebert Widdler was caught this morning running through Trafalgar Square without any clothes on chanting as he went, " Mas-Ter-Bat-shin ... woohoo!!...Choking the chicken. Spanking the monkey. Slapping the donkey. Throttling the Pope....Mast-ter-bat-shin!!"It is not clear as to the events that lead up to this incident yet, but Lord Likely has volunteered his investigative skills in this matter.Sir Danglebert Widdler has been taken to his Aunt in Glasgow in the meantime to recover from his "episode"

Ah, the elusive multi-avatared B resurfaces to taunt and agitate Max. If she only knew how much it succeeds and how close Max is to losing control again.

Oh, she knows. Purposeful she is.

I suppose I am just supposed to click on your nose now and be magically whisked away to the land of Bad Mommy to be tortured by the masters again. No thank you. Max is still trembling from his small dose of that scary stuff this morning.

I suppose you realize--but again could care less--that if you chose to write this much in a gainful manner, Max's long hoped-for post would be finished many times over.

Actually, I prefer it in small doses, this this. (Picture big big grin on little doggies face.) :)

Thrapp must be an Aussie term--surely it can't be British. I just can't believe the Lord would forget something as good as that one! If so, what an oversight on his part! Thanks. We are become "educated" little by little. Although mostly not in the subjects I had envisoned.... :)